Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7)

by Heather Hiestand

  Greggory agreed. If his brother-in-law had been murdered, he’d want to know his wife was safe, too. “I shall leave you to it, then. I should return home to my children.”

  Lord Judah clapped him on the shoulder. “Do not hesitate to lean on me and your uncle, Greggory. It will not be business as usual in Kensington any time soon. Be prepared for tough times.”

  Betsy drank tea at one corner of a long wooden table in the Redcake’s tearoom kitchen, her father next to her. Though early, the ovens were crammed full of treats to be served later, the fragile items that weren’t shippable from the factories. A tray of factory cakes was being decorated with piped frosting and dried berries. Cream was being beat for trifle topping. On the other end of the table, a cook was cutting vegetables for the day’s soup. A man came through the rear door, hauling cans of milk. The fragrant scent of full leaf tea underlay everything, as it was ladled into pots to be ready for the first brewings.

  Betsy appreciated her view of the orderly comings and goings, the modulated voices and coordination of movement. Especially given the night before. The tearoom had been scrubbed thoroughly about an hour earlier; the coroner had made a special early morning visit to view the scene so the tearoom could be opened. She’d heard someone talking about the Marchioness of Hatbrook and suspected her old friend’s government connections had made the police move quickly.

  When she saw the time on the wall clock, Betsy’s focus turned to her father. “Thank you for coming.”

  Her father put his hand over his mouth to hide a yawn. “Of course. I need to be off to work in a minute.”

  “I know. At least we are close to the end of the week. Not much sleep for either of us last night.”

  He nodded. “Did you manage on that sofa?”

  “Likely better than you did in the chair.” They grimaced at each other. “It had to be done, though. Mr. Redcake had to notify the family.”

  “He had to notify Lord Judah,” her father said.

  “Why? Was Mr. Redcake afraid they would find another dead body at the other tearoom?”

  “You worked with Lady Judah in the Fancy. Don’t you remember her surname was Cross?”

  Betsy lifted her teacup and drained the contents. “It never crossed my mind. Was the dead man her brother?”

  “Yes, younger brother.”

  “I see. Of course he had to notify Lord Judah. Goodness, that means the dead man was the nephew of an earl.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Mr. Soeur walked past, a glint in his eye as he saw a baker taste dough with a finger he’d just used to wipe his eye.

  “At least the police are likely to work very hard to solve his murder. I had thought he was quite a low character, given that Prissy Weaver is just a seamstress’s assistant and seemed to know all about him.”

  “You sent her to the house last night.”

  “I had no choice.” Betsy set down her cup and leaned forward. “Who is she, Papa?”

  Her father glanced away for a moment, into space, before responding. “She must be your half sister. I was never clear on the reason why Sarah’s first husband’s parents took Prissy away from her. Of course at the time I didn’t know Sarah had killed her husband. Perhaps she thought they could do a better job with a young child because she was running the boardinghouse.”

  “How old was Prissy then?”

  Mr. Soeur yelled at the baker. He gestured back and stormed off.

  Her father shook his head at the scene before turning back to her. “About two, I suppose. She looks so much like you now, like your mother.”

  So they did look like their mother. “She must be only about three years older than I am.”

  “About that,” her father agreed.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She would have been about seven when your mother, well . . .”

  He lifted his hands, and Betsy filled in the missing words. “Was executed.”

  He nodded. “Yes. We didn’t see Prissy often. You’d have no reason to remember her.”

  “I have no recollection whatsoever,” Betsy admitted.

  “I think the grandparents brought her over on her birthday. Maybe once a year beyond that. It was a very limited contact.”

  “Did she act as though she knew you last night?”

  He rubbed his lips together. “She had the other girl with her, the cakie?”

  “Grace. Prissy must live with the Fair family. She works for Grace’s mother.”

  “I see. I wonder what brought her over from Bristol. All I can say is, I never had any financial responsibility for her, and lost track of her completely after Sarah’s death.”

  “It might be nice to have a sister,” Betsy mused. “But I do wonder how she came to know of a man who was about to be murdered.”

  “I find it harder to believe you didn’t know about him, given that he’s Lady Judah’s brother and a known thief,” her father said.

  “I was never close to Lord Judah or his wife. Lady Hatbrook was my friend. And Ewan.”

  He shook his head. “You need to be friends with the common folk, too. They’ll tell you the tales.”

  “I’m assistant manager. There’s no place for friendship now.”

  “Department heads and such?”

  “We don’t have many of those at Kensington. We’re smaller than the flagship. Just Mr. Soeur. Besides, I’ve learned to be cautious, what with one thing and another.”

  “It isn’t easy, being your mother’s daughter.” Her father sighed and pressed a palm to the top of his head, where his hair had been carefully styled to cover his bald spot. “However, you were so young and not a part of any of it.”

  “Neither were you.”

  “It never affected my career. Sir Bartley was good about that. We owe a great deal to the Redcakes.”

  She poked his arm. “You should have married Lady Hatbrook back when she was just Alys Redcake, when you had the opportunity.”

  He smiled. “Oh, my dear, I never had the opportunity. Her father had the idea she had feelings for someone who worked with her. He didn’t realize it was a customer.”

  “I did wonder why she never confided in me,” Betsy admitted. “Maybe I was not a very good friend.”

  “Friendship is a strange and wonderful thing. Each is different, just like each marriage is different.”

  “Do you hate my mother?”

  Her father smiled at her and took her hand. “No. She gave me you. I have no regrets as to my own actions. I still believe she acted in self-defense. But . . .” He shook his head. “She made a poor choice of weapon. Poison. If only she had confided her troubles to me.”

  Betsy didn’t have the ability to forgive as her father did. Her mother had not killed her tormenters in the heat of the moment. She’d made a cold-blooded choice to end their lives. Why had her father felt the need to tell her she and Prissy looked so much like their mother? She didn’t like knowing that.

  Feeling a headache pulsing in her forehead, partially caused by only four hours of sleep the night before, she forced a smile for her father. “You had better leave for work. Take a cab. Mr. Redcake said you should.”

  “Given the time,” he said, glancing at the wall clock, “I had better do exactly that. I wish I could think of someone to write to about Prissy, but I did not keep in touch with anyone from Bristol.”

  “I know, Papa. We’ll simply have to judge her on her own merits, if she comes around again. Last night may have been an accident, because she lives with a Redcake’s employee.”

  “Very well.” Her father stood, then bent down to kiss her cheek. “I will see you at home this evening.”

  She nodded, then stood herself, smoothing down the black skirt and blouse he’d brought for her to wear today. Suitable for mourning, it would do nothing for her complexion, but also, she was entirely unobjectionable.

  “You would think we would remain closed today,” Mr. Soeur said to her after her father left. “I had no idea I was en
tering a crisis. Everyone is in a black mood.”

  “I’m so sorry no one informed you of the goings-on,” Betsy said. “It was so late when we discovered the body that only Mr. Redcake and I were still here.”

  Mr. Soeur made a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth. “I do not know what to expect today. Will we have many customers or none?”

  “You and I will both be guessing at that. I would imagine many customers, but none of them spending much money. A different sort from usual.”

  He sneered. “Bah! Gawkers. I much prefer our usual ladies.”

  “We shall see who comes.” Betsy locked her jaw when she felt a yawn coming on. “I need to check on the bakery now.” She just hoped she would have time to take a break at lunchtime. Her father might think they should wait to see if Prissy stopped by again, but she intended to visit the Fair home to speak to Prissy herself.

  “Hello, dear,” Mrs. Fair said when she met Betsy at the door during her lunch hour. “Prissy was able to find the fabric we needed to fix your skirt.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I’m not so glad to hear about the dreadful business at Redcake’s,” Mrs. Fair added as Betsy walked into her work space. She hastily swept a palmful of scattered threads from her blouse and skirt. “Do you think it is safe for Grace to work there?”

  “The murder took place after everyone was gone. I’m sure the killer will be caught soon. The victim is the nephew of an earl.”

  “My goodness.” Mrs. Fair put her hand to her chest. “Grace has often told me how refined the Redcake’s customer is.”

  “When you serve the best goods, you attract the best customers,” Betsy said. “I didn’t really think my clothing was finished. I wondered if I might have a word with your assistant?”

  “Yes, dear, that is fine. I was just about to pop down the street for some thread.” Mrs. Fair picked up her hat and a shawl and let herself out of the room.

  Prissy stopped working at the sewing machine against the wall as soon as her employer had left. She folded a half-sewn forest green skirt, set it aside, and turned around. “Ready for a good gossip about Manfred Cross?”

  Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “No, Miss Weaver. I don’t very much care about him. I’m more concerned with the murderer than the victim. And you.”

  “And me?” Prissy’s lips curved.

  Betsy chose to be bold. “Are you my half sister?”

  “Oh, that.” Prissy tilted her head. “Of course I am.”

  “Did you know who I was when I was here the other day?”

  “Certainly, though only once you were introduced. It gave me such a turn, to meet you like that. I’m not surprised to know you work for Redcake’s of course. You did in Bristol, but I’d have expected you to labor at the main emporium.”

  “It was a promotion for me to come here,” Betsy said. “My father still works at the other location.”

  “Don’t let Lady Hatbrook and her ilk forget about you,” Prissy advised. “It’s all very well for Mrs. Fair to be impressed by the Kensington clientele, but it isn’t quite as upper crust as the main location’s patrons.”

  “I’ve no part of their world,” Betsy told her. Grace must gossip a great deal at home.

  “Why, you were all but engaged to an earl!” Prissy said.

  Feeling exhausted, Betsy lowered herself to a stool at the large table in the middle of the room. Bits of thread and infinitesimally small pieces of cloth littered every inch of the table, evidence of a new dress being cut. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Grace told me you and Lord Fitzwalter used to court. You are a legend among the cakies.”

  “A very long time ago. He married a Redcake. In the end, the upper crust will stick together. I’m just a worker, like you.”

  “Don’t give up. You’re so close.”

  “No, I am serious. It was four years ago.”

  Prissy tapped her lips with a carefully manicured index finger. “Who has courted you since?”

  Betsy frowned. “All I’ve done since is work.”

  Prissy stood and took a chair that was leaning against a wall and pulled it toward the sewing table. She gestured to it and Betsy invited her to sit.

  “There hasn’t been anyone? A pretty young thing like you?” Prissy gave her a knowing grin.

  “My blackmailer effectively ruined my ability to court,” Betsy admitted, without really understanding why. Had she been so desperate for an older sister, a confidante, all these years? Was there some part of her that faintly remembered Prissy? Or was it that talking to her was like talking into a slightly more mature mirror?

  “Your blackmailer?” Prissy pressed a hand to her blouse.

  Betsy noticed she was dressed in black as well. Had one of her grandparents died? Perhaps that was why she’d come to London. “I’m afraid so. I’ve been blackmailed for years because of our mother’s crimes. I was afraid I’d lose my position if people knew.”

  “Surely the Redcakes know. How could they not? They are from Bristol.”

  “Yes, but no one else did in the business. And I think only the older generation knew. My manager wasn’t aware of the story until I told him.”

  “You mean Mr. Greggory Redcake, the Kensington Redcake’s owner?”

  “Yes.”

  Prissy sighed happily, her large, expressive eyes lifting heavenward. “Such an attractive man. I wouldn’t mind being on his arm. Is he married?”

  “A widower.”

  “Ah, that accounts for the tragic, disheveled, Byronic air. I did wonder, but of course when I saw him last night it was in the presence of a corpse.” Prissy shivered deliciously.

  “A long day and a dead body tend to affect one’s appearance,” Betsy said with a halfhearted attempt at humor.

  “My, my, you have feelings for him, don’t you?” Prissy said, her gaze settling back on Betsy.

  “I respect him of course. But we have an entirely professional relationship.”

  “That must be very irritating,” Prissy said. “Have you made any suggestions otherwise?”

  The very idea. “Of course not. I like my position. I take it seriously. I’ve had to, with my father giving most of his income to the Carters.”

  “You must think I hate our mother for killing my father,” Prissy said.

  “Don’t you?” Betsy hadn’t really thought about it. The concept of Prissy was still so new to her.

  “I shouldn’t like to be beaten by my husband,” Prissy said. “How is one to get away? I can understand why she did it. Maybe she was trying to save my life?”

  “But she gave you to his parents.”

  “They weren’t bad people. Very religious, very strict.”

  “They are deceased?”

  “Yes. My grandfather died four years ago. My grandmother just succumbed after a short illness. I nursed her as best I could, but her lungs were bad, poor dear.”

  “You have my sympathies. It must be like being orphaned twice.”

  “Yes, but we never spoke of my parents. It was as if my grandparents decided I was their child and the others never existed.”

  “Do you think that is preferable? To handle the situation that way?”

  “Well, it leaves one open to blackmail, doesn’t it? Secrets, I mean. I think secrets are best exposed.”

  Betsy nodded. “I told Mr. Redcake about my blackmailer, and about my . . . I mean, our mother. And now my father has told me about you.”

  “Good.” Prissy nodded. “I have to get back to my sewing. Daylight is wasting.”

  Betsy wondered at the dismissal. Surely Prissy had some interest in her sister. “I’m sure I’ll see you again in a few days when my skirt is ready.”

  “I can bring it to your house some evening,” Prissy offered.

  “Thank you. That is very kind.”

  They smiled at each other, and Betsy left, satisfied at the ending of their encounter. Was her sister right that secrets should be exposed? Did Grace, for
instance, know of the relationship between Prissy and the Pophams? What did Simon Hellman have on her after all these years anyhow, except terror? It wasn’t as if Lord Fitzwalter cared that his lover of four years ago was a murderess’s daughter, or that her father could intervene in a love affair four years extinguished. Now Mr. Redcake knew, and there was no one else with any power over her, she might as well stop worrying about her secrets. It might almost be a relief if Simon had killed that man and the police arrested and hanged him. His reign of terror would be over. But if he hadn’t killed Manfred Cross, or the police couldn’t pin the crime on him, then what?

  Greggory came into Redcake’s very early Saturday morning in order to have a word with Mr. Soeur before the day began. He’d also ordered his secretary in to compile the previous day’s sales. How had it gone? Friday had passed in a blur.

  He’d spent the previous day fending off reporters who wanted to know about the murder, always furious because the police gave them nothing. Police Constable Rivers had stopped by to tell him the inquest would be Monday, and that the autopsy of Manfred hadn’t been particularly useful.

  Miss Popham had been present all day, but in that mood where one tended to stay in motion without accomplishing much. She was so young that the limited night’s sleep hadn’t affected her looks. If not for her behavior, he’d never have known of her exhaustion. He hadn’t wondered why she spent the day dressed in mourning, however.

  But that day, he found her in Mr. Soeur’s kitchen at the table. Next to her was Violet Carter, dressed in a new cakie uniform. Miss Popham had the cakie’s handbook open in front of them and was going over serving details with their newest employee.

  He probably needed to hire a tearoom manager as well. The flagship Redcake’s had all these positions, but no assistant manager. He’d thought, with a smaller footprint, that they didn’t need all these other heads of departments with their large salaries, but Miss Popham couldn’t do everything.

  Until the last couple of days, though, it had seemed as if she could.